


little light

by elinciacrimea



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (or at least I tried), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Family, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mid-Canon, Multi, Parenthood, Pre-Canon, grrr at flayn's mom not having a canon name for the tags, takes place on any non-CF route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-11-03 20:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20541992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elinciacrimea/pseuds/elinciacrimea
Summary: "She is beautiful, and she is perfect. It is foolish to say so, because the goddess herself says perfect beings cannot exist - but Cichol knows now she must have been wrong, because his daughter is perfect. They name her Cethleann. In the old tongue, it means 'light.'"Cichol, Cethleann, what they lost, and who they became.





	little light

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of goes without saying but SPOILERS FOR: Seteth and Flayn's backstory/origins, Rhea's backstory/origins, everything about the Saints and Nabatea.
> 
> I tried to keep this fic as canon-compliant as possible (more on that in the end notes) but the timeline for this game is as wild and difficult to follow as any other FE timeline, lol. So I did my very best, but I'm sure there's going to be some inaccuracies. Please don't point them out to me haha
> 
> "Hey Lace, why do you keep writing fic about immortal depressed widowed dads and their tiny daughters?" I don't know, honestly. It just keeps happening. Is this a FE archetype now?
> 
> Updated 2/13/20 to account for a few lore tidbits in the DLC!

Cichol always feels rather awkward in churches. It always makes him feel as if he is participating in some sort of magnificent farce. After all, the existence of the goddess is still a hotly debated subject among humans. The relief of her carved in bronze upon the temple wall doesn't quite capture her face, he notes. The teachings themselves, too, don't quite follow the words he has heard from Sothis's lips over the years.

But humans, Cichol has noticed, gravitate towards powerful leaders, and whether or not she exists, the goddess is a powerful one, indeed.

He blends in easily with the others milling about in the cathedral - it can be difficult adjusting his clothes to suit current styles, but Cichol has been away from Zanado for many years, and he's well used to disguise. Cover the ears, change names and attire often, study the local fashion, look nondescript but confident, and nobody will suspect a thing.

There are no services in the church today, but the building is lively with...some sort of event, Cichol thinks. He doesn't really know. He's not familiar with this particular house of worship. But it's hard to resist poking his nose into places dedicated to the goddess. Call it arrogance. Or perhaps homesickness.

He can return to Zanado at any time, but an eternal lifetime in the same place can grow tiresome. After all, Seiros had said he was at a natural age to "leave the nest," as if she had more than a few millennia on him. Indech and Macuil had already left for similar reasons. It's not an unexpected thing.

Still, Cichol hasn't seen the progenitor god, or any of them, in quite awhile, and as he stands before the relief he can't help his fingers lingering over the brass face of the goddess, just for a moment.

"Do you believe?"

Cichol starts at the voice, and turns slowly, as if a spooked animal. People rarely speak to him directly. He's mastered the art of looking unassuming.

Or so he thought. But the young woman is looking at him with her head cocked, an appraising expression on her face.

Her surprisingly beautiful face.

"In the goddess?" Cichol asks, and then mentally cringes at how utterly stupid the response is. What else would she be asking about?

But the woman only nods. "Yes. I'm unsure myself, you see."

"If you're unsure," Cichol asks her, "then what are you doing in a church?" _ Yes, you're being a very appealing person to talk to, _ his helpful mind (who sounds rather like Macuil) supplies. _ She's surely finding this conversation riveting. _

"I was raised here," says the woman. "I come by to help the monks out once in awhile, as repayment." She gestures to the crate tucked under her arm. "Hauling supplies and such. But I've never truly fit in around here. That's why I ran off and became a wyvern rider instead of studying faith and whatnot."

"I see." Cichol can't think of anything to say to all of that.

"So...do you believe?" the woman repeats. She's shorter than him, and her eyes are very blue.

"Ah...I do." _ I have seen and even spoken to the goddess, I call her Mother - how could I not? _"Where I am from, we are very...very religious."

"Where are you from?" the woman asks.

"Er…" He _ has _cover stories. Why does this woman make him forget? "Zanado."

The woman's brow furrows. "Where's that?"

"North of here. It's very small." What is he _ doing? _He should stop talking. Why can't he?

"You'll have to bring me sometime."

Cichol sputters, staring at her, completely lost.

"Ah, I apologize for being forward. I haven't even introduced myself." The woman holds out her free hand. "I'm Ianthe. And you are?"

Cichol shakes the hand, and hopes she doesn't notice his own trembling. "Cichol."

"That's an unusual name."

"Is it?"

"You're an odd one, aren't you?" Ianthe smiles. "Tell you what, give me a few moments to complete the last of my duties...and then meet me in the courtyard. I'd like to get to know you better, Cichol."

"You...would?"

Ianthe laughs, and takes his hand.

In the days to come, she will get to know him better, and he in turn will come to know her. He learns that she loves the sea, that she's a wonderful cook, that she can fight him to a standstill in a way no person save Seiros herself ever has. That she finds him funny, even when he isn't certain what the joke is. That her talent with a wyvern is such that even the most stubborn beast will bow to her (is he so different from wyverns in that respect, really?) That she is kind, and compassionate, and stubborn, and the greatest person he has ever met.

That she, somehow, loves him.

(And that's how it all begins. They are married in that same church, less than a year later. And a year after that, his world changes again, in the most wonderful of ways.)

\---

She is beautiful, and she is perfect. It is foolish to say so, because the goddess herself says perfect beings cannot exist - but Cichol knows now she must have been wrong, because his daughter is perfect. Her hair and eyes are green, softly tinted with blue like her mother's eyes, her ears are pointed to indicate the blood of their kind, and she is tiny, and fragile, and perfect.

They name her Cethleann. In the old tongue of Nabatea, a language Cichol barely speaks, one only Seiros and the goddess herself are old enough to know well - it means "light."

"Our little light," Ianthe says, and she is right. That is what she is - tiny, but shining, down to her core.

\---

"You know, I mean this in the most loving way possible. But when we first met, I thought you smelled rather like a wyvern."

Cichol raises his eyebrows at his wife. "I don't know how to respond to that."

Ianthe laughs as she rolls over onto her side, looking down at him. "It's not a bad thing. But I'd never quite caught that scent coming off a human before."

"Well, I suppose you know the reason now."

"I do." Ianthe smooths back the small green wisps of Cethleann's hair. The infant sleeps between them on the bed, quiet and contented. "Though I admit a part of me still finds it all rather difficult to believe."

"You have lived for a hundred years and yet you still do not believe me?"

"I did not say that." Ianthe's blue eyes glimmer in the soft lamplight. "Only that the whole thing feels like something out of a storybook."

"I feel I have provided adequate proof."

"You certainly have. Don't mind me, love." Ianthe waves a casual hand. "I am merely thinking out loud."

"You'll wake the baby."

"She's a deep sleeper. Aren't you, dear heart?" Ianthe coos at her daughter. "She'll love the beach. When do you think she'll be old enough to learn to swim?"

"I'm uncertain, but at least a few more centuries."

"Well, I can wait." Ianthe brushes back her daughter's hair again. "I feel as though I have all the time in the world."

"Even with the regular blood transfusions, your lifespan is still - "

"I know, dear. A figure of speech." Ianthe leans down to kiss his forehead. "But I still haven't wrapped my mind around the idea of eternity. Forgive this fragile human mind."

"You are anything but fragile."

"Good," says Ianthe. She takes his hand, threading her fingers through his, and presses a kiss to where his wedding ring shines. "Never forget that."

(Every person is fragile. Every life is fragile. It takes Cichol far too long to learn that.)

\---

"It has been some time since a Nabatean was born," says Seiros. "And this is the first time in still longer that one has been born by...by way of a human."

"I'm honored," says Ianthe, who still looks a little shell-shocked, perhaps the first time Cichol has ever seen her such a way. This is Ianthe's first visit to Zanado, after all, and she is the first human in a long time to glimpse the place where the goddess slumbers.

"Still," says Seiros, peering at the baby, "she seems to be like any other of us. You say she can transform?"

"Yes, though she has no control over it. Which is why we thought it best to stay here for the time being." Cichol grimaces. "I fear our house in Enbarr was entirely demolished. The citizens think it a freak accident."

"It's rather funny when you think about it, though," says Ianthe, bouncing Cethleann in her sling. "A tiny angel of destruction."

Said destructive angel plunges her fist into her mouth and sucks on it.

"I sense great power within her," Seiros continues. "We shall have to see what she grows to become."

"Indeed," says Cichol dryly. "But first she needs to start eating solids."

"We have nothing but time." Seiros waves a hand. "It is...a shame Mother is in no shape to see her, though. She so loves children. But I am certain they will be able to meet eventually. It is only a matter of time before Mother awakens and returns to us, after all."

"Mother," Ianthe repeats. "The...goddess."

"Who else? Well, you are always welcome here in Zanado, brother, and so is any family of yours." Seiros beckons them forward. "Including you, a human woman who carries the blood of Cichol."

Ianthe colors slightly. "Well, I - "

"It is no source of shame. Such a thing has happened before - a Nabatean selecting a human to share their blood, extending their life." Seiros rests a hand on Ianthe's shoulder. "Admittedly, not in some time, but we are happy to have you in Zanado."

"Well, that's nice," says Ianthe. "I suppose."

"Come. Let us celebrate...our newest addition to the children of the goddess." Seiros smiles down at Cethleann. "Today is a beautiful day."

\---

"I think she likes you better than me."

Cichol feels foolish as soon as the words leave his lips, and wishes he could take them back. But Ianthe only raises her eyebrows as she steps through Cethleann's bedroom door, shutting it softly behind her. "What brought this on?"

"All of it." Cichol gestures vaguely towards the closed door. "She screamed for hours when I tried to get her to bed, and then it only took you ten minutes to settle her."

"You're exaggerating. You took only one hour, and I took a good twenty minutes."

"That changes very little."

Ianthe sighs, shaking her head. "Dear, she's a toddler. They're inscrutable creatures. Tomorrow she'll only want you."

"No, she's always preferred you. The two of you have...a special bond." Cichol swallows. "I fear she just tolerates me."

"I sincerely doubt that." Ianthe takes his hands. "And even if she does...she's a toddler. Give it a few centuries, when she realizes other people have feelings."

"But - "

"You worry far too much." Ianthe smiles, shaking her head. "It would be adorable if it weren't so frustrating."

"I don't know how to respond to that."

Ianthe laughs. "You idiot man. I love you."

"I - "

"Just don't worry." Ianthe turns his hands over in hers. She's much shorter than him, but just as strong, her wedding ring gleaming on fingers scarred by battles long past. "I know that's like asking the tides not to change, but truthfully, you're fretting over nothing. She loves you, and so do I, and we're all safe. The rest doesn't matter so much."

"When you put it like that, it does sound silly."

"See?" Ianthe rises on tiptoe to kiss him. "I'm always right."

\---

The sea of the Rhodos Coast shines beneath them. At the end of the pier, Cethleann swings her legs, watching fish dart through the clear water.

Ripples run through the water as Ianthe tugs up her line. "That's another one. I believe that makes eight. How many did you have, Cichol?"

"...None yet."

"Mother's winning!" Cethleann announces.

"I always do." Ianthe has already added the newest fish to the bucket and is rummaging in her bait box. "And this is how we bait a hook, Cethleann. Are you paying attention, dear? At this rate, she'll outpace you."

Cichol sighs. "I'm perfectly decent at fishing."

"One of these centuries I'll teach you to do it without me," Ianthe continues. "And then perhaps I will not be the only one bringing home dinner."

Cethleann perks up. "When is dinner?"

"Soon, little light."

Cichol scoops the child up into his lap. "Hold still, you'll fall off the dock."

"I like the beach best," Cethleann continues, with the usual attention span of the very young. "Everyone's happiest here."

"I like it best, too," says Ianthe, ruffling her hair with her free hand.

"Let's come back lots!"

"One thing at a time," says Cichol. "For now, let's just fish, and relax."

"All right." Cethleann leans back against his chest. "Let's."

Waves crash against the shore.

\---

Cethleann is special. She has special blood running through her veins, and while she looks just (almost) the same as any other person on the streets of Enbarr, there is something slumbering within her that means she is not like them at all.

That's why her family moves often, assuming fake names and changing houses. That's why Cethleann has to cover her ears whenever she goes out. That's why Father looks the same as when he and Mother met, a very long time ago, but Mother looks a little older, with faint streaks of gray in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes.

That's why Cethleann has her powers.

She remembers the first time, when she was holding up the hurt baby bird. Her hands had lit up, and before all their eyes, the bird's injuries had closed, and it had hopped upright in Cethleann's small hands. Father's eyes had widened, but Mother only beamed. "Little light - look at you."

That's Cethleann's power. She can heal things, without using any kind of faith magic, just calling on her own strength. She's a dragon, the Light Dragon, and with her powers she closes cuts and saves hurt animals without only a thought. Mother always praises Cethleann for it, for her kindness, for her compassion. Mother says that's even more important than being strong like her and Father.

Mother is human, but Father gave her his blood, and every so often he gives her more of it, so she's going to live a long time. Not as long as Cethleann and her father, but awhile. Cethleann knows death, because the people around her die all the time, but the idea of Mother being dead too frightens her.

But it won't be for a long, long time, Mother says. There's no need to worry about something so far away. Besides, the blood gives Mother special powers. She's already so strong, stronger than anyone, but thanks to Father's blood she's even stronger. Nobody could ever beat her.

There's other people like Cethleann and her father, too. Their family travels to see them about once a century. The people of Zanado, who share Cethleann's hair and eyes, who speak of the goddess as family and treat her like the youngest member, ruffling her hair and sneaking her sweets.

Cethleann likes it in Zanado. It's as though the land calls to something deep in her blood, as if she was born there (even though she knows she was really born in Enbarr.) There, she can not only wear her hair up and speak as freely as she wishes - she can transform into her other form, swooping through the skies with no fear of being seen as the sun warms her scales, and Father joins her and Mother climbs onto her wyvern and soars alongside them, and there is nothing but the infinite blue, like the sea.

The only place Cethleann loves more than Zanado is the Rhodos Coast, where they fish and Mother's the only one who ever catches anything, where the air tastes like salt and sand and home, where the waves crest around Cethleann's toes and carry her worries away with them.

For hundreds of years, they are happy. For hundreds of years, there is war in the world, but they are away from it, safe and secluded, and all Cethleann knows is happiness, and peace, and security.

When she is far, far older, she will look back on those days with fondness.

But she will also know that even all those years weren't enough.

\---

Cichol and Cethleann feel the moment the goddess dies.

One moment they are standing in the kitchen of their home in Enbarr, and the next the world has erupted, a high-pitched, grating scream ringing in their ears and the ground rocking beneath them.

Ianthe shouts something as they both crumple under the weight of it, catching Cethleann before she can hit the floor, but Cichol can't hear her over the panic and pain that isn't his own. The screaming goes on forever, an endless echo, and when Cichol is able to open his eyes again he is staring up at the blurry ceiling, drenched with sweat and gasping for breath.

"What happened?" Ianthe is cradling Cethleann against her chest as she leans into his vision. "Cichol? What's wrong?"

Cethleann is sobbing. Cichol can feel tears on his own face, wonders vaguely how they got there.

"Tell Mother what's wrong, little light," says Ianthe, stroking Cethleann's hair, but she only shakes her head, burrowing her face into her mother's shoulder. "I can't help if I don't know."

"Mother…" Cichol swallows. "Sothis is…"

He doesn't know how he knows, but he does. It's as if the world's own heartbeat has stopped beating, though he never noticed it until it was gone.

Ianthe goes pale. "What?"

"The goddess is dead," Cichol repeats, trying to focus on her and giving up, his body too weak to manage it. "I don't know - I don't know how, but she is. She is."

"That's…" Ianthe looks nervously between Cethleann and Cichol. "What does that mean? Will - will you be all right?"

"My mother is dead, Ianthe," Cichol manages as Ianthe rests a cool hand on his forehead, and then unconsciousness claims him.

\---

Zanado is gone.

Cethleann doesn't understand how or why she knows. She doesn't understand any of it. But it's gone, and they can't go there to see because it's too dangerous, and the goddess is dead.

Cethleann asks after the others, if they're safe, and Father won't answer her. Cethleann supposes he doesn't know any better than she does, and of course she doesn't suggest they go look. If the goddess has fallen, then whatever managed to slay her must be dangerous indeed, after all.

Cethleann doesn't know if her family is safe, either.

They must be safe. Cethleann believes they are. Mother and Father say they are. So she waits, and she prays, and she believes, even as rumors of war and conquest drift through the streets of Enbarr, even as Mother keeps one hand on the belt of her sword whenever they go to market, even as Father weeps at night when he thinks Cethleann can't hear.

\---

The visitor comes a few years later, in the dead of night.

Cethleann is already halfway to the door by the time Cichol intercepts her. "Go back to bed."

"But I want to see who it is!" Cethleann pouts. She's been going through a difficult phase. The start of adolescence, Ianthe calls it. It feels far too soon to Cichol, but then again, it has been many years.

Cichol rubs his forehead. "It is _ far _past your bedtime, young lady."

"But it is odd to have a caller so late," says Ianthe, resting a hand on Cethleann's shoulder. "Why don't we see who it is?" There's an edge to her voice, though, and her sword is in hand.

Cichol nudges Cethleann behind him. "I suppose we must. But take caution."

"Of course." Ianthe walks to the door, looking through the peephole, and then gasps, her stern expression falling in an instant. "Seiros!"

"What?"

"It's - " Ianthe scrambles to unlatch the door, and flings it open. "Lady Seiros!"

"Ianthe," says Seiros, nodding to her as she steps over the threshold. She looks exhausted and disheveled, wrapped in a traveling cloak, and her hands are shaking as she draws back her hood. "Cichol, Cethleann. It has been too long."

"You yet live," says Cichol, relief filling him as he rushes forward to take her hands. "Thank the - thank goodness."

"Somehow, yes," Seiros's eyes look far away. "Somehow, I live. And I bring two more of our brothers with me."

Two more cloaked figures step into the living room, Ianthe shutting the door behind them.

"Uncle Macuil!" Cethleann calls. "And Uncle Indech!"

Indech ruffles her hair, but Macuil looks solemn. They all look so very weary, Cichol notes. As if they have seen hell.

Perhaps they have.

"Please, come sit," says Cichol, gesturing to the sofa. Seiros half-falls onto it, the other two taking seats at her side. "I am relieved to see you all safe. I thought - I thought Cethleann and I were all that was left."

"You very nearly are," says Seiros. "We five are - are all that remains of Nabatea." She swallows, lowering her head. "I assume you sensed it...when…"

"We did." Cichol sits down facing them, Cethleann taking the armchair next to him and Ianthe standing behind them. "I considered traveling to Zanado, but…"

"It was best you didn't," says Macuil. "Believe you me. Indech and I were on our own travels, else we would have been slaughtered alongside the rest. And Lady Seiros…"

"Yes, I was there." Seiros lifts her head. "I will never forget a moment of it. Nemesis, the _ King of Liberation _\- " she spits the words out like poison, "and his cursed army. They slaughtered the goddess in her slumber, and as we rushed to aid her, then - they turned their blades upon us."

Ianthe takes Cethleann's hand.

"They killed them all," says Seiros, her voice dull and hollow. "Every last one, down to the youngest of us. I do not know how I survived. It is all a blur of...blood, and screaming. By the end of it all, the canyon was painted red. I escaped with my life and my blade, and nothing else."

"That is not the end of it," says Macuil. "Those monsters took the bones of our mother and our kinsfolk, and they…"

"Created weapons," Indech finishes. "They wanted our powers, and in our blood and bones...they found them."

Ianthe draws in a breath. "The powers of your blood…"

"Yes." Seiros turns to her. "You know your own powers, gained from Cichol's blood, and how fearsome they are. And Nemesis and his so-called _ Elites _...they have even more power than that."

"They are formidable foes regardless, to have slain the the progenitor god and her protectors," says Macuil. "And now, they have made themselves more powerful still."

"Now, they seek to expand their conquest," Indech adds, face darkening. "To the entire world."

Silence falls in the living room. Cethleann is trembling.

"I see," says Cichol at last.

"That is not the worst of it," says Seiros.

"Not the worst?" Ianthe asks.

"They have Mother." Seiros's eyes flash, her hands clenching into fists on her lap. "They turned her bones, her heart, into - into a dreadful blade. And with it, they continue to pillage and ravage this land. I have eluded them all this time. I clung to my hope, to my burning fury, and to the strength those feelings granted me. With that strength, I searched for my remaining people. I found Indech and Macuil. And now...I have found you. It is...such a relief...to see that you and Cethleann yet live, my brother. And since you are here...then you can aid me in my mission."

"Your mission?" Cichol asks. "What would you ask of us?"

"To fight them." Seiros sits up straighter. "To use all of our combined strength, and strike back against Nemesis and his men. He used Mother's blood to give himself incredible strength - if unstopped, he may well live for centuries. And he will continue to spread his legacy of death and horror - using our mother's own body to do it. That cannot be allowed. Nemesis and his men...must be judged. And we are the ones who must pass that judgement."

"Only the four of us?" Cichol asks. "Four against an army capable of slaying Sothis herself?"

"We cannot do it alone," Macuil agrees. "Even if we are able to locate the other remaining Children, it will not be enough. I have used all resources that I had available to me, and am at my limits. We need an army. And in the absence of our people, our only hope is to raise an army of man. It will take time, and a great deal of battle. I am loath to depend on the humans. But united…we can rally mankind to turn against their so-called King."

"They are difficult odds, but I will not back down." Seiros reaches out to take Cichol's hand. "My brother, we must ensure that the tragedy they have wrought spreads no further. For the sake of this world...and for the memory of all we have lost. And we must punish those who took our family from this world."

"We cannot hide away forever," Indech murmurs. "I tried to argue that, myself...but Seiros speaks true. We are all that stands between mankind and Nemesis. If he achieves his goals...there will be nowhere that is safe. We will all be exterminated. Even you two."

Cichol looks over at Cethleann. Her face is pale and set as she clings to Ianthe's hand.

He must create a world where his daughter can continue to live. There isn't an argument.

Cichol looks back at Seiros. "Very well. I understand...and I will assist you."

For the first time, Seiros's face brightens. "Thank you, my brother. With the Earth Dragon with us, we will truly be able to strike a blow against Nemesis, no matter how many years it may take."

"Then you'll have my blade, too," says Ianthe. "I might not be a dragon, but I know the battlefield, even if it's been some years."

"Are you certain?" Cichol asks, turning to her. "You have no need to place yourself in danger…"

"If you're going to, then so too am I," says Ianthe, taking his hand. "I believe I made a vow concerning it?"

"There was nothing about war in our wedding vows."

"It was in the fine print." Ianthe shrugs. "Besides...you once told me that only two people had ever fought the Earth Dragon to a standstill. And both of us are in this room right now. It would be foolish to reject the help of one, wouldn't it?"

"The lady makes a strong case," says Indech.

Cichol sighs. "If you are certain."

"I am." Ianthe kisses his hand. "My mind is made up."

"Excuse me." Cethleann raises a nervous hand. "Can I...can I help too?"

Every face in the room turns towards her.

"I…" Cethleann swallows. "I wish to be of assistance. I don't want Nemesis to take over the world, and - what he did to Zanado - he mustn't be allowed to get away with it."

"Cethleann…" says Ianthe slowly.

"I know it will be dangerous," says Cethleann. "But I - I am Nabatean too, even if I am not like the rest of you. With me, the dragons will be five. And I possess power of my own." She holds up a hand, letting it spark with the light of her innate healing magic. "I can heal and protect everyone, if you let me."

"I can't allow you to be in so much danger," says Cichol. "You are only a child - "

"I am not so young anymore!" Cethleann turns to face him, and Cichol is surprised to see tears brimming in her eyes. "And I - I wish to fight! Nemesis will kill you, and Mother, and Lady Seiros, and everyone - he has already taken the goddess from us, and so many more! I cannot sit idly by while everyone I care about is slaughtered!"

Ianthe drops to her knees besides Cethleann's chair, wrapping her arms around her. "It will be fine, little light. You'll see - "

"It might not be," Cethleann whispers. "But with my powers - perhaps it could. Please, Lady Seiros, Father, Mother - I must do this!"

"I am always willing to take more soldiers," says Seiros. "And your daughter speaks the truth, Cichol. Our position is...perilous. And Cethleann's healing abilities eclipse even mine. She deserves this chance as much as the rest of us do. If she accompanies us...perhaps there will be less loss."

"Ianthe," Cichol asks, "what do you think?"

"I'm uncertain," says Ianthe slowly. "I...I will leave the choice to you. You know the nature of Cethleann's powers better than I."

Cichol looks at Cethleann's pleading face, and then at the pain in Seiros's.

(And Cichol, young and foolish, makes the choice he will spend the rest of his days regretting.)

"...Very well," Cichol relents. "You'll stay back, though, and focus on healing. You're too young for the front lines."

"Of course," says Cethleann. "Thank you, Father. I swear, I - I shall not let you down. I shall make you proud of me."

Cichol opens his mouth to respond, but Seiros cuts him off. "I am grateful, Cethleann. Now, we must begin making plans."

\---

For over a hundred years, the War of Heroes (as it will come to be called, but for that stretch of time it is only the War, a never-ending, all-encompassing battle) rages on.

Seiros calls herself the voice of the goddess, and in time, is granted the title of Saint. As time goes on, so are the rest of the goddess's children. They all claim to be humans with exceptional power, their abilities gifted by the goddess, nothing less and nothing more. They spread miracles throughout the land, and their numbers widen as their deeds grow in magnitude. 

But with those deeds come constant death. Cethleann heals, as she promised, pouring her heart into her power as she pushes life into the veins of dying men until her chest is burning from the weight of it. Her parents take to the battlefield, wiping out entire battalions of Nemesis's men on their own, and Cethleann keeps them alive, no matter how far they travel or how deep their wounds.

Still, though, despite Cethleann's best efforts, people die. And Cethleann has always known that humans only live so long, but watching their lives be snatched from them far too early, by steel and magic - it breaks her heart, every time. So she works harder still, training her faith and honing her skills, trying to be strong enough to defeat even death itself, and sometimes it feels as if she will never be able to scrub the blood of lost life from her hands.

Seiros selects a champion, and he forms an Empire with the gift of her blood. She says such an action is the best chance they stand - doing just what the enemy has done, but without the cost of their lives, giving ordinary humans longevity and exceptional power. It is the same way Father has extended Mother's life, but on a smaller scale. The other Saints follow their leader's example, selecting their finest to receive what come to be called Crests, and with them the ability to better defend their rapidly-growing army. Cethleann, too, grants her blood to a few of her most trusted monks, thinking only of keeping them alive on the battlefield.

And the battle rages on, and Cethleann brings miracles. She is capable of saving people even Lady Seiros cannot. She can heal anything, fix any wound, and that is her duty.

It is difficult work, but the end of the day, Cethleann is still alive, and so are her parents, and the rest of her family, and Cethleann would endure even more pain if that could only always be true. And her parents look at her with such pride in their eyes, and she finally feels like _ enough _\- so she doesn't tell them how she grows more tired with every passing year, how sometimes her body feels like lead and it's all she can do not to fall asleep standing up, how her head has a near-constant ache as she stands on the battlefield with spells flowing from her body - because this is what she was born to do, made to do.

She is the Light Dragon, the Illuminated, and if she cannot do what she was created for, then what worth does she even have?

\---

Close to the war's end (though they do not know that, not yet) they come upon a beach. It's not the Rhodos Coast, where Cethleann spent much of her childhood, but the sea is blue and the sand white and unmarred by blood. After the healing is done and camp is made, Cethleann ventures to the water's edge, removing her shoes and sitting down with her toes in the waves, not caring about the sand in her robes, swallowing down the salt air.

Here, she feels calmer, and for the first time in a long time, free of the blood. 

After all, sand between her fingers has always felt like home.

"It's wonderful being at a beach again." Ianthe sits down beside her. "You look happier than I've seen you in some time."

"I like helping you and Father, and Lady Seiros." Cethleann lets the ocean brush against her toes as she watches the horizon. "It is my duty to help people with this blood I was given, and I am grateful for the privilege. But...sometimes I want to go home."

"I know. I do, too." Ianthe brushes her daughter's hair back from her forehead. "But we will be back soon enough. All of this will be over, there will be peace, and we will all go home together. We shall be able to fish again, all three of us."

"And Father still won't catch anything."

Ianthe laughs. "That he won't."

"What was that?" The crunch of sand follows Cichol's footsteps as he comes up behind them. "I daresay I heard someone besmirching my fishing talents."

Cethleann giggles. "What talents?"

"You wound me." Cichol shakes his head as he sits down on her other side. "Ianthe, you too?"

Ianthe covers her mouth with her hand. "No, no, no besmirching is happening here. Not a bit of it."

"That's what I thought," says Cichol with dignity, lifting his chin.

"Perhaps a little besmirching," Cethleann admits.

"Just a bit," Ianthe agrees. "But there's no harm in that, now is there? After all, somebody here cannot even bait his own rod. Some criticism is warranted."

"Two against one." Cichol sighs. "Hardly sporting."

"All is fair in love and war," says Ianthe lightly.

Cichol sighs again, rolling his eyes with an air of the long-suffering, and Cethleann laughs as she rests her head against his shoulder. The waves roar against the shore, clouds spiraling overhead.

"I wish we could go back, sometimes." Cethleann's voice is smaller than she intended it to be. "Back to Rhodos Coast...when we were safe, before the war…"

"We cannot go back, little light," says Ianthe gently. "If you dwell too much on the past, you may be unable to move forward. All we can do is live our lives to the fullest, in this moment we now inhabit."

"I know," says Cethleann. "I know that, I just wish...I wish the Red Canyon never happened."

"I wish that too," says Ianthe. "But all we can do is build a beautiful, peaceful future, and look forward to that future, together."

"Let's," says Cichol. "The world always shifts. One day, it will be peaceful again. We must fight our hardest, and then one day, we'll go home."

"Right," says Cethleann, closing her eyes. "Home."

In this moment, just the three of them by the seashore, there's a little peace in the middle of a century-long war. Cethleann hopes soon there will be more.

Soon they can go home, and they'll go to the ocean again, to Cethleann's beloved Rhodos Coast, and there will only be peace.

\---

"This will be our greatest battle yet." Seiros's eyes flash as she surveys her gathered army - by now they are thousands in number, maybe more. "But today, on the Tailtean Plains - Nemesis will fall. At long, long last - we will destroy the King of Liberation."

There is no cheering from the army. The air is too heavy, too grave, for any sort of celebration. Stormclouds are gathering overhead.

Cethleann's hands shake on her staff. Beside her, Ianthe rests a hand on her shoulder. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Are you ready?" Cichol asks from her other side. "This will be quite a pivotal battle…"

"I am prepared," says Cethleann quickly, cursing the tremble in her voice. "I shall keep everyone safe, and alive." She's already tired, legs aching, but she forces that traitorous feeling away. This is important. No matter how it drains her, she must do her duty. She must protect them all.

"Your father and I will be leading our troops," says Ianthe gently. "We'll be far afield, cutting a path for Lady Seiros. It will be a long, long fight. But we'll come back to you at the end of it all, all right? Have faith, little light."

Cethleann swallows. "I do. But I'm scared."

"That's all right. But don't be." Ianthe kisses the top of Cethleann's head, then leans over her to kiss Cichol before mounting her wyvern. "I'll see you both soon."

"Sothis be with you," says Cichol. He squeezes Cethleann's hand, and then disappears into the crowd, towards his place in the formation, and Cethleann too walks towards her men, the platoon of her most trusted healers.

"Lady Cethleann," says one of the monks. "Are you well?"

"Perfectly fine," says Cethleann.

"You look rather pale…"

"Do not worry for me." Cethleann forces a smile, hoping she sounds braver than she feels. "You are all ready?"

"Yes, my lady!"

"Seiros will give the order soon." Cethleann turns to face their lady, standing on a hill before them. "And we will move out. All of you, do your very best, and the goddess will watch over us. I...I have faith."

Seiros raises her sword in the air, and it gleams bright as lightning flashes in the distance. With that signal, the army charges forward, and Cethleann's last battle begins.

The plains are a blur of chaos, rain, and fog. Cethleann is drenched within minutes, her veil and robes glued to her body and her shoes slipping through mud. She has to wipe her eyes to see the people who need her help, but she helps nonetheless, even though her headache worsens with every spell.

Cethleann has to conserve her power, and she relies on ordinary faith magic instead of her powers as much as she can. But Nemesis's army is brutal, cutting through the brave soldiers like butter, and they fall in waves, and traditional healing isn't enough. The battle rages on, hours and hours, endless magic and flashing blades, endless fighting, exhaustion, _keep healing, keep faith…_

Cethleann's head is spinning, but she can still make out the explosion a few yards away when it strikes. With a massive fire spell, an enemy mage has cleared out an entire circle of Seiros's men, and the enemy is now charging through the debris to cut down the soldiers remaining, who are struggling, wounded and crying out in the mud as they burn away...

Cethleann doesn't think twice. She has to save them, and save them she does, letting the light magic pour from her form and suffuse the battlefield in a glowing light, as wounded and dying men stand straight again…

Over the last hundred years, Cethleann has done this countless times. But something is wrong this time.

The wave of fatigue that hits her never falters, and she feels like her body is made out of stone, too heavy to hold up, the battlefield blurring around her. Her headache has reached a fever pitch, as if someone has buried a butcher knife between her temples.

Cethleann stumbles, clutching her staff to her chest. Her head is whirring, her vision turning into nothing but swirls of color. Sharp pain fills her body as something slices through her flesh, and she can't even resist, her worthless limbs unmoving. She wants to scream, but there is no breath in her lungs, her limbs are lead, and she gives into the exhaustion, crumples to the wet ground…

Soft, strong arms wrap around her.

"Mother's here, my little light," comes the whisper, and a gentle hand strokes back her hair. Cethleann leans into the warmth, the security, the faint smell of the sea and forget-me-nots. "It will be all right, darling. I'll protect you…when you wake, I'll be right here."

And Cethleann knows nothing at all.

\---

The fighting has gone on for hours, perhaps longer. Cichol has lost the ability to keep track. Everything is a blur of weapons and pain, the shouts and cries of dying men a constant murmur in his ears. He's covered in blood. At least some of it is his own.

Cichol drags out the blade buried in his side, tossing it into the grass, and clutches one hand to the wound as he staggers forward, trying not to lean on his lance. His robes are more blood than white fabric, which certainly isn't good. He left his axe somewhere, buried in a mage's chest. The rain has only grown heavier, and he can barely see a few yards in front of him. There are so many soldiers, so much fighting -

He hears a scream that turns his blood to ice, and forgets the pain and blood, and runs.

Cichol has known Ianthe for over one thousand years, and never once has he heard her scream like that.

Somehow, plunging blindly through the fog, he catches sight of a symbol, glowing in the rain - his own Crest, emblazoned against the gray sky. And beneath it, he finds her. 

Ianthe's wyvern is dead, arrows buried in its hide, and she stands between it and the army, using its corpse as a shield to keep them from flanking her. Her sword flashes, but she's fighting one-handed - there's a small figure slung over her shoulder. They are both soaked in blood.

Cichol's lance flies without thinking, and between the two of them, the wave of soldiers is fought back. Just enough for him to create an opening, and run to her side. "Ianthe!"

Ianthe looks up. One of her eyes is swollen shut, but the other widens, bright blue in the gray. "Cichol - "

"Are you all right?"

"Forget me," Ianthe pants. "Cethleann's - "

Cichol didn't think he could be any more afraid. But Cethleann is so still against her mother, blood running down her back, and ghostly pale, and that's when he knows the cold touch of true terror.

Ianthe shoves Cethleann into Cichol's arms. "We're surrounded. I'll hold them off."

"What do you mean?" Cichol stares at her, too frightened to comprehend her words. "What are you - "

"She's dying. Something's wrong with her, and she's hurt - you need to get her to the healers, now. I don't know how much time she has." Ianthe glances over her shoulder. "They're coming!"

Cichol looks. Another wall of soldiers is pounding towards them, weapons drawn.

"You have to get her out of here," Ianthe pants. "Use your other form. Now, hurry - "

"Then I'll bring you too."

"Not in that condition. You're injured. They'll shoot you out of the sky unless someone stays behind to stop them."

"I can't leave you - "

"You must." Ianthe's eyes blaze. She is no dragon, but she is as much of one, in that instant, as Cichol himself. "Cethleann must live. No matter what, she must live. And you must protect her."

"Ianthe - "

Ianthe smiles. "I love you both. Now _ go_."

The soldiers descend on them.

And Cichol does what, centuries later, he will still be unable to forgive himself for.

He transforms, and with Cethleann cradled in his arms, he flies away.

He looks back, only once, and it's just in time to see the axe that cuts his wife in two.

And with that sight, the transformation fails him, slips away like the beach's sand through his fingers, and he plummets through empty air, reaching futilely for Cethleann's tumbling, fragile form, his mind nothing but pain, blood trailing behind them both -

The white, gleaming claws of the Immaculate One surround them, and when Cichol is able to open his eyes again, his head rests in Seiros's lap. People are shouting, someone is pressing a hand to his side, Cethleann's head rests against his chest, everything is a gray, empty blur...

" - er! Brother!" Seiros is shouting as she lifts Cethleann off of him. "Hang on! I'm going to heal you - "

"Her first," Cichol gasps, and blessed darkness claims him.

\---

The battle for Tailtean Plains rages on for three days and three nights. At the sunrise of the fourth day, Saint Seiros defeats and kills the Liberation King Nemesis, and though the war doesn't end, the mad king's followers still scattered across the land, a decisive victory has been struck for the Empire. Peace is, at last, within grasp.

Before that peace comes, though, Lady Seiros and the Four Saints travel to the Rhodos Coast.

Seiros performs the rites and oversees the construction of a monument, carved with ancient runes and blessed by every form of magic they possess. It will not prevent graverobbers, but Ianthe is human, after all. Their enemies will find nothing that can be used to create weapons or crests or other foul machinations, and that is all they can hope for.

Cethleann does not awaken in time for her mother's memorial. She may never awaken at all. Thank to the ministrations of Seiros and the monks, however, Cichol does, his injuries severe but healing, and he hates himself for it.

"A monument to Saint Cichol," Seiros murmurs as she looks up at the towering stone monolith. "That is what we will call it."

Cichol doesn't bother answering her. The others have already left the beach, eyes solemn and grave. Something broke between the Saints that day on the plains, and Cichol doesn't care enough to fix it.

"Has…" Seiros pauses. "Has Cethleann opened her eyes today?"

"No," says Cichol heavily. He says nothing else.

They have finally returned to the coast, and yet Cethleann cannot see it. She slumbers in her tent, healers at her side. Her injuries have been treated, yet her condition doesn't change, and none can explain why her face is so gray, her body so frail.

Too much power, Seiros said. She was too young to do so much. She must have been in pain for some time, forcing herself to do more than she was capable of.

And Cichol had never realized it.

"I am certain she will awaken, given time," says Seiros. "Her life is still there. Badly weakened, but there."

The waves crash against the shore.

"None of this was your fault," Seiros adds. "It was the fault of Nemesis, and his monstrous followers, and none else. You bear no blame."

"...I was careless," says Cichol, as he kneels at the base of the tomb where his wife will forever sleep (too early, _ too early_, they had more time, she had only lived half the life they thought she would.) "I was a poor husband...and worse, a poor father. I should never have brought Cethleann to the battlefield."

"Without her, we never would have made it as far as we have. We would never have reclaimed..." Seiros touches the sword at her belt. "Mother."

Cichol casts the monstrous weapon a single glance. It glows faintly in its hilt. It radiates power. It is foul.

It is all those things, and only bone. It is not his mother's smile, or her gentle hand, or her life. It is not the comfort she, and only she, could perhaps have provided him, even now.

Cichol looks away. "I don't care."

"You don't care? This is Mother we're talking about!"

"Even with that sword, the progenitor god will not come back." Cichol closes his eyes. "And now neither will my wife. And perhaps, neither will my daughter."

"I understand how you are feeling - "

"No. You do not. You_ cannot."_

There's a soft shift in the sand beside him, the sound of Seiros seating herself at his side. "You are correct. I cannot. But...but I know loss. Perhaps not this loss, but I do."

She does, and Cichol knows it, and perhaps Seiros deserves an apology for his harsh words, but he does not have it within him to be kind or charitable now.

"Ianthe was…" Seiros breaks off and clears her throat. "She was not of Zanado, but in the end...she was one of us. She was our family. And I came to love her as dearly as I love you, or Macuil, or Indech...or Cethleann."

_ It's funny, but I think I love you. _

_ I love you. Will you marry me? _

_ You idiot man. I love you. _

_ I love you both. Now, go. _

Cichol's eyes burn.

"For her loss, they will _ pay_, my brother," Seiros hisses, her tone darkening. "Every one of them will join their commander in death. No, they will _ crave _death's release when I have reached them. They will feel every bit of pain that they inflicted on her, on everyone - they will know what it means to suffer the true wrath of the goddess."

As Ianthe lies below the sand, as Cethleann remains trapped in endless slumber, Cichol finds he doesn't particularly care.

\---

All Cethleann knows is pain, pain and whispers. The world drifts around her, cloudy and dark, and she is so, so very tired…

Sometimes she hears voices, but the words spoken elude her. Sometimes she feels warmth, the touch of a hand, but perhaps she only imagines it. It's dark, and it's cold, and she is nothing but the ache and the endless, endless sleep…

Cethleann's head aches. She tries to open her eyes, but the pain is too much, and she only moans.

"...leann?"

"Hurts…" Cethleann whimpers. "Help…"

"It's all right. It will be all right." A hand takes hers, strong and warm. "I've sent for Seiros, she'll heal you. Hold on, all right? Don't let go - "

Cethleann tries, she tries, but the darkness still calls to her, clings to her. She fights against it, though, desperately - _ no more, no more sleeping, no more _ \- and with monumental effort, forces her eyes open. The world is blurred, and green.

"That's the way," comes the voice. "Just hang on, just a little longer…"

Cethleann tries to focus on the green-haired figure, who sits beside her, holding her hand. "Father…?"

"Yes." There are tears in Cichol's eyes as he strokes back her hair. "I'm here, Cethleann. I'm right here. Thank Sothis, you've finally - "

"Where's...Mother?"

Father doesn't answer. His hand shakes on hers. His face is pale. Too pale.

"Where...is she…? Father…?"

"She is…" Her father can't seem to speak, his lips moving but no sound escaping them. And Cethleann knows why, there's only one reason Father would looks so broken, so lost, but she cannot believe it, she cannot comprehend it, it's not possible, it's the one thing that could never, ever happen, it _ cannot _be true, so why does Father look so sad?

"No," Cethleann whispers.

"I'm sorry."

"No, she said...she would be here, when I woke…"

"I'm sorry." Father's voice breaks. "Cethleann, I'm so - "

"No!" Cethleann's voice becomes a shriek. "No! NO! Mother! MOTHER!"

"Cethleann…"

"Please," Cethleann begs through the throbbing pain and the tears. "Please, Mother…"

Cichol draws her close, cradling her, burying his face in her hair, and Cethleann wails endlessly, begging reality to change, the world to shift, because she has lost so much, and now she has lost the worst thing of all, and her blood is ice and her feet are stone, and she slips back into sleep knowing her mother died alone.

\---

The next time Cethleann awakens, the pain is less, even as the exhaustion still calls to her. Her head aches as she eases her eyes open, her limbs feel heavy as lead, but consciousness swims back to her as she finally escapes the tormented, endless nightmare.

"Cethleann?" Her father is there again, still seated beside her. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes…" Cethleann's throat is dry as a bone. She tries to force her head to lift, and gives up. "It hurts...less…"

"That's good." Has Father moved since she last awoke? How long ago was that? Cethleann's head is too foggy to remember.

_To remember…_

No, she remembers one thing. That knowledge has haunted her, even in sleep. Cethleann swallows. "Is...is Mother really…?"

"She gave her life for yours," says Cichol softly. "I...was careless. It was my fault. I am sorry."

"Do not apologize," Cethleann mumbles. "I am certain it was...not your doing."

"I should never have let you take to the battlefield," says Cichol. "That is why you are...clinging to life like this. Trapped in this sleep. Seiros fears it will be centuries before you can return to your full strength."

"Centuries…" Cethleann manages to lift her head a fraction of an inch, with monumental effort. "How long, Father? How long was I asleep?"

"...Close to seven years," Cichol says finally, and he looks far older than even he is in that moment. "We feared you would never awaken again."

"And yet I am still tired," Cethleann whispers, her head falling as she curls a hand in the soft fabric of the blankets wrapped around her. "What of the war?"

"We are close to the end," says Cichol. "Victory seems assured. Nemesis was slain by Lady Seiros, and his troops are decimated. But I...I have pulled back from the front."

"To look after me?"

"Yes."

"Lady Seiros…"

"She understands. She is concerned for you, as well. So were - _are_ Macuil and Indech."

Cethleann rubs a hand over her face. "I'm...so tired…"

"I know."

"I don't want to sleep anymore, but…"

"If you must sleep, then do," says Cichol. "And I will be here when you wake. No matter what."

\---

Cethleann nearly tumbles from the wyvern. Her father catches her arm as she slumps over the sand. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Cethleann mumbles, staggering upright, clinging to him for balance. "Sleepy. But I must...I must see her."

"Take it slow." Cichol guides her through the shallow waters of the Rhodos Coast. "She'll wait for you."

"She's waited long enough. _ I _have waited long enough." Cethleann pauses, squinting at the monument in the distance as they shuffle through the gentle waves. The symbol of Cichol glows back at her. "How many years…"

Cichol pauses. Cethleann knows he's trying to figure out how to soften the truth. "...Roughly a century."

Cethleann closes her eyes briefly. "I supposed so."

At long last, they reach the small island. Cichol leads her up the sand, and Cethleann crumples to her knees the moment she reaches the altar.

The stone already looks so weathered, Cethleann thinks as she reaches out to press a hand against it. "I...I'm home, Mother."

There is no answer but the waves.

"I cannot turn back the clock." Cethleann's heart feels like a lead weight in her chest as she stares at the obelisk. "But I...I…"

Cichol sits down beside her, puts an arm around her shoulders.

"I just want you back," Cethleann feels tears sting their way down her raw face. She's done nothing but sleep and cry, for one hundred years now. "Why can't you come back? We were supposed to...come home...together…"

A seagull crows overhead. Cethleann's wet skirts cling to her legs, like they did on the plains, so long ago.

"I'm home now, but without you, it doesn't matter," Cethleann whispers. "I slept and you were gone...you said when I woke, you'd be right there...I believed you...and I know it wasn't your fault, but…"

_ But the next time I wake, will Father be gone too? _

_Will everyone be gone? _

So much has changed since that battle. The world is a different place. Seiros is building a new land, and her uncles have left them, and Cethleann feels cold, cold, cold.

Cethleann drags her sleeve across her eyes, fumbling in her pockets and pulling out a rather sorry nosegay of forget-me-nots, leaving it at the base of the obelisk. "I...I won't forget you, Mother. I'll bring more flowers, when...when I can. When I'm awake again. I love you."

She's asleep before her father is carrying her back to the wyvern.

\---

Years pass. Cethleann awakens, but only briefly, usually only for a matter of hours, maybe days, never more than a handful of weeks. It will take centuries for her to heal fully, and she will never truly be the same. All Cichol and Seiros can do is keep her comfortable and safe.

So that is what Cichol does. He dedicates every moment of his existence to it - concealing Cethleann, protecting her. The Saints are considered dead to the public eye, even though the Holy Mausoleum only contains empty tombs. Cichol patrols the area where Cethleann sleeps, ensures no errant thief or brigand ventures near, because despite all of Seiros's efforts in protecting the place, any magic can fail. It is the least he can do, because when he closes his eyes he sees what happened when he didn't.

Cichol reads to Cethleann in her slumber, writes more of the stories she loved so much as a child. He holds her hand as she cries out from nightmares, tucks the blankets up around her, keeps her clean and warm and safe. Sometimes she awakens, exhausted but alive, and he cherishes every moment her eyes are open, even if she spends most of them tired and confused. Even if she sometimes awakens screaming for her mother, lashing out in terror, or weeping and refusing to tell him the cause. But Cethleann is safe. The only thing that matters anymore is that she is safe. Everything else can be forgotten.

Cichol can't transform anymore. He doesn't know precisely why, but it seems Seiros cannot, either, and Cethleann certainly isn't able to. But he wouldn't even if he could - they must remain quiet, and hidden, and safe. Seiros requires his assistance from time to time as the Archbishop of Fódlan, but he never goes far, sticking close to Cethleann and checking in on her regularly.

Thanks to his choices, his daughter's health is forever precarious. Her life is out of danger thanks to Seiros's ministrations, but anything could change, and the world is filled with peril for a fragile, comatose child. So he guards her, the weight of his choices feeling as unnaturally heavy as the wedding ring hanging around his neck, tucked safely beneath his clothing. A reminder, a token, of the greatest years of his life, and the reason they are gone from him.

\---

And so the centuries drag on. Change follows them, but for Cethleann, they are only passing moments, because she can't stay awake long enough to watch them. The damage done by the overuse of her powers will be something she suffers from for millennia to come, and exhaustion is all she knows. Every time she awakens, Father is there, his face more lined by worry then the last time she saw him, and he takes her hand and tells her how long it has been, what has changed. He always has new stories to read to her, new tales to tell, of places she doesn't have the energy to go to. Sometimes Seiros visits too, with gentle words and a kind hand, but she's too busy to spend time at Cethleann's bed.

They move, from time to time. From the Holy Tomb, to Zanado, and back again. A change of scenery, fresh air. But in both places they have been secluded, hidden away, and Cethleann has hardly spoken to anyone who isn't her father or Seiros since the war ended, and no matter how often her father brings her gifts and trinkets and stories she is desperately, terribly lonely.

Sometimes her father is called away to Seiros's side, serves her for a few decades, and then returns. Those times are infrequent, but even he has gotten some time among humankind. If he gets to, then Cethleann should too, she thinks when she is feeling especially petulant.

But Father resists. He shields her with a fervor he never had back in Enbarr, acts as if an assassin lurks in every corner. Cethleann is no child, and she knows why his behavior has shifted from the old days, where he was stern but never overbearing. She knows he is burdened by guilt about allowing her onto the battlefield, about the battle that took Cethleann's health and her mother's life. But that does not mean she needs to spend the rest of her life sealed away!

She merely needs to convince him of that fact. And thanks to all they have endured, her father will be a much harder person to convince then he was back when she was begging to join the Saints.

Cethleann kicks her heels against the stone of her seat as Cichol enters the Holy Tomb, dinner tray in hands. "Welcome back, Father."

"You've been awake awhile," Cichol muses as he sets the tray down in front of her. "Nearly a year, and you've been sleeping only an ordinary amount."

"Perhaps I will get to stay awake this time?" Cethleann says hopefully. "At least for a few years?"

"Perhaps. It is promising. Eat up."

Cethleann pulls the tray towards her. "How was the monastery today?"

"It's rather busy. I see why Rhea - that is, Seiros - needed the help." Cichol sighs. "Some of these _ promising youths _ have never had a proper talking-to in their life."

"Well, you're the perfect person to give it."

"Indeed."

"Father…" Cethleann takes a deep breath. She's been practicing her speech for weeks. "I wanted to ask something of you."

"I will take you to the Rhodos Coast when I have the time and deem it safe, Cethleann."

"Not that. I…" Cethleann steels herself. "I wondered if I might...come live at the monastery with you?"

"What?" Cichol stares at her as if she declared an intention to join a traveling circus. "Come again?"

"I have been awake for some time," says Cethleann. "Awake...and dreadfully lonely. I know your duties for Lady Sei - Rhea are important, but when you are away, I have nobody to talk to at all. And, Father, she and you are the only people I have spoken with at all for one thousand years. I have grown weary of such a solitary existence."

"It's dangerous, Cethleann," says Cichol. "That is why Rhea and I have falsified our identities - "

"If you have, then why can I not?" Cethleann points to herself. "I can simply be an ordinary girl at the academy."

"Absolutely not. The monastery isn't a regular schoolhouse. It's for training soldiers. You'd be back on the battlefield, and - " Cichol cuts himself off. "I cannot allow what happened at the Tailtean Plains to happen again."

"I see." Cethleann quickly alters course. "Then I needn't be a student. You said many of the staff and professors have their families living in the monastery or the surrounding village?"

"I suppose, but - "

"Then I could come live with you!" Cethleann clasps her hands. "Please, Father? I cannot...I cannot bear all these days alone. I will be careful, I promise. I will change my name, and cover my ears, and not speak to strangers, and take the utmost caution, and of course I shan't use my powers, and…"

"Please, Cethleann, slow down." Cichol rubs his temples. "I understand, but - "

"I just don't want to be alone," Cethleann whispers. "I don't like watching the world change and pass me by. I hate it sealed away down here, I want to - I want to be a part of things again. That's...that's what Mother would want, isn't it?"

Cichol freezes.

Cethleann wonders if she went too far. "I - I apologize, Father. Perhaps that was too harsh - "

"No...no, you are correct." Cichol rubs a hand over his face. "I suppose...if you truly are staying awake for the time being, then it would be...inhumane of me to force you to live down here, alone. And I would better be able to watch over you if you were by my side. Perhaps it truly would be best if you moved to the monastery…"

Hope blooms in Cethleann's chest. "Really?"

"Not just yet," says Cichol, looking deep in thought. "There is still more planning we must do..."

Cethleann huffs. "I have just explained that I will be cautious!"

"No matter how cautious you are, the faculty is...aware that I possess a major Crest of Cichol. If a mysterious daughter of mine were to appear with the Crest of Cethleann...well, I must give the matter some thought." Cichol straightens up. "I will...speak with Lady Rhea."

"Truly?" Cethleann flings her arms around his waist. "Thank you so much, Father! I promise, I will not let you down!"

Cichol pats her head lightly. "Of course. But you must - "

"Be careful. Of course." Cethleann nods rapidly. "I will be the pinnacle of wariness and caution, Father!"

\---

Cethleann - _ Flayn_, she had always liked the sound of that name, it reminds her of the sea - slips into her new life at Garreg Mach Monastery with great excitement. Of course, she is forbidden to leave the grounds, and she keeps her ears covered and conceals her true name and race as prized secrets. It's not hard, though - using her powers any further could bring her life to an early end, after all, and she hasn't been able to transform since the Tailtean Plains, just like Father - like _ Seteth_.

Flayn has, in her opinion, done a remarkable job. It's too odd to call her father by his first name (even if it is a false one, and Flayn is amused by the fact he appears to have named himself after her) so she just calls him _ Brother_, and nobody is ever the wiser. They both look young for their age, after all. Very, very young.

The monastery is a beautiful place, and more importantly, an exciting one. There's a massive fishing pond, though Flayn still lacks her mother's talents with a rod, and a polished cathedral and endless halls that Seteth has deemed safe to explore. Perhaps the most exciting thing of all, though, is the four Saint Statues in a small room off the cathedral - the figures have blanker faces then their real counterparts, of course, and Cethleann looks taller and older than Flayn knows she was back then. Still, there's something exciting about seeing herself cast in shining metal (not real gold, Seteth says, the monastery hadn't quite had the funds for that back when they were constructed.)

The faculty is kind to Flayn, though most of the students steer clear of her (Flayn knows it's due to Seteth's meddling, but she knows her status in the monastery is presently shaky, so she decides not to press the issue just yet.) Still, she isn't alone, and she only sleeps an ordinary amount, and those facts are enough for her to be happy, at least for now.

She still wakes up in tears sometimes, and fears going to bed, but does her best to conceal those facts from her father. It probably doesn't work.

"I always see you out here by the pond," says Seteth, coming to a stop when he sees her seated at the end of the dock. "I suppose that is unsurprising."

"I miss the sea, but it's nice having a little piece of it." Flayn swings her legs over the water. "Don't worry, I won't fall in. And even if I did, I can swim as well as I can walk."

"I know, I just - " Seteth cuts himself off. "I wanted to make sure you were well."

"I'm fine. I like it by the water."

"Yes, of course."

"It reminds me of Mother."

Seteth doesn't answer. Flayn didn't expect him to. He hasn't spoken Mother's name in centuries, after all. Flayn wonders if he ever will again.

She wonders if she'll ever be able to call him _ Father _again.

She certainly doesn't get to be "little light" anymore. Not since Mother died.

"It's getting dark, Flayn," says Seteth at last. "Let's head back to the apartment. I don't want you out this late."

Knowing he can't see her face, Flayn rolls her eyes before getting to her feet. "Of course, Brother."

The setting sun glows on the water.

\---

"When did you last sleep, Seteth?"

"I don't know," says Seteth, ignoring the note of warning in Rhea's voice as he leafs through the reports on his desk. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. You're going to collapse at this rate." Rhea's tone grows still sterner. "Seteth. We're searching for her - the knights, the faculty, even the students are combing the monastery and surrounding villages. We're doing all we can. I have personally ordered - "

"That won't be enough," Seteth says. "Blast it, where's that report from - "

"From Catherine? I have it. She has not found a trace of Flayn. Now, answer my question."

"I do not have time to - "

"That is an order, Seteth."

Seteth glares up at her. His vision is slightly hazy, and it takes him several seconds to focus on her face. "Rhea, if this is not of the utmost importance, then it can wait."

"I understand that you are distressed," says Rhea. "But you are of no use to Flayn in this state."

"I'm already of no use to her."

Rhea purses her lips, but doesn't answer.

"We both know who could be behind this," Seteth hisses. "Why are you not treating this with the urgency it deserves?"

"I consider mobilizing the entirety of Garreg Mach to be proper urgency," says Rhea stiffly. "But that is not what we are discussing. We are discussing the fact that I have not seen you take any form of rest for a full six days, quite possibly longer. Is that true?"

"Perhaps it is. I have not kept track."

"It is astonishing you are even capable of speech. Perhaps it is your bloodline. Now," and Rhea leans over his desk, pushing away the papers in his hands, "go get some sleep. At least for a few hours. I will handle all matters relating to Flayn personally, and wake you should I receive any tangible news."

"I can't. I can't just - "

"Seteth."

"She could - already be gone." Seteth is horrified by how his voice breaks. "But if there's any chance she's still alive, any at all - I have to find her. I can't - if she's lost, then I can't - "

"I know."

"I already failed her mother," Seteth mumbles. He reaches for his collar, where his wedding ring hangs, and clutches it through the fabric, trying to draw some of Ianthe's strength from the metal. "I cannot lose her too, I - I promised I would look after her, and now she's - now she's - "

Rhea takes his hand. "We'll find her, Seteth. I promise you that. We will. But you are in no condition to accomplish much of anything right now."

"She has to be alive," Seteth babbles. "She has to be, or - "

Rhea half-lifts him from his desk chair, guiding him to the sofa. "Shh. It will be all right."

"I can't," Seteth half-sobs into her shoulder. "I can't lose her - I can't _ find _her - "

He is dimly aware of Rhea's voice, singing a familiar tune, before sleep claims him.

\---

The cell isn't cold, but Flayn's bones feel icy. She's felt cold ever since they brought her here. She rubs her fingers together, trying to coax feeling into them. 

It has to have been days by now. Weeks? She's been unconscious for so much of it, it's hard to tell...and Flayn has never been good with the passage of time.

Everyone's searching for her, certainly. They'll find her. Seteth and Lady Rhea will send the knights, and the professors will look too, and even the students. They have to find her. Right? Right. She's not alone, Flayn chants to herself, curling her knees up to her chest and huddling into a ball. She's not alone. They're coming, they'll find her, they'll stop...whoever that terrifying, masked specter is…

Flayn never saw who took her from the monastery garden, but the first face she saw upon awakening was that grinning skull, only inches away. She'd screamed, and the knight hadn't even flinched.

The dark-robed mages have taken her blood, the bandage on her wrist a monument to that. She'd tried to fight, but the masked knight had cuffed her about the head and that had been the end of that. Other than that, she's unharmed. They must not want to kill her, or they would have done it by now. And if they wanted ransom...Seteth would have paid it. He'd sell the monastery to pay it, Flayn's certain of that.

No, all they wanted from her was blood.

Her blood. Flayn's heart pounds faster at the thoughts of the secrets within it. Do they know? Did they already know? Is that why they took her? Will they ever let her go? Will anyone be able to save her?

Seteth must be beside himself.

Guilt spikes in Flayn's heart once more at the thought. They're probably all searching, and they're worried, and it's her fault. She didn't protect herself, _ again_, and - and -

_ Mother's here, my little light. _

_ It will be all right, darling. I'll protect you…when you wake, I'll be right here. _

"Mother, please," Flayn whispers, begging the empty air. "Please, please, wherever you rest...help me. Father - "

She never feels the blow that returns her to sleep.

\---

The moment he sees the flash of green hair cradled in Byleth's arms, Seteth's heart starts to beat again.

\---

Flayn jerks awake forcefully, her breath coming out in a choked sob. "Moth - "

There's a shuffling beside her, and a voice says something she can't hear. Flayn gasps for air as she stares up at the ceiling _ the green ceiling in the Holy Tomb and she's been asleep too long and her mother is dead and they're all dead - _

"Flayn?" She hears the voice this time, as if from the end of a long tunnel. "It's okay now…"

Flayn's vision clears. The ceiling is not green stone, but wood. She turns her head, and takes in rows of beds, a bookshelf. Garreg Mach. The infirmary.

Flayn's breathing slows as she sees the man beside her. "Fath...Brother?"

"It's me." Seteth's smile trembles. "Everything's all right. Everyone's alive."

Flayn can't help the tears, as childish as it makes her feel, and Seteth wipes them away with a gentle hand. "It's all right. You're in the infirmary. You're safe."

"Brother…" Flayn swallows. How many times has she awoken to her father's worried face?

"That's right. It's okay now."

"What...happened?"

"That young professor...they saved you. They found you underground, and fought off your captors…you're safe." Seteth speaks almost as if he's trying to convince himself, not just Flayn. "You're home."

"I'm…" Flayn turns her face into the warmth of his hand. "I'm home…"

"Yes."

Flayn sniffles. "I was scared. That by the time I got back, everyone would be gone…"

"It hasn't been so long." Seteth has dark shadows under his eyes. "Everything's all right."

"Really?"

"Yes. I understand Professor Manuela was hurt trying to save you, but the healers say she'll make a full recovery." Seteth nods towards a curtain-hidden bed in the corner. "There's nothing to worry about. I'll keep you safe. We'll figure something out."

"Okay…" Sleep is calling to Flayn again, and it makes her heart seize up with fear. "Don't let me sleep too long. Please."

"Very well." Seteth leans back from the bed. "I should go speak with the professor. Get some rest. And don't worry. Whenever you wake up...I'll be here."

\---

"We've driven back the last of those heretics," says Seteth. "Are you well, Flayn?"

"Just finishing up." Flayn lays the wreath of forget-me-nots against the base of her mother's grave. "You've retrieved the relics, I notice."

Seteth's fingers clench on the lance and staff in his hands. "Yes. I do not...I do not want them to fall into enemy hands. The professor will decide what to do with them."

"That sounds agreeable." Flayn sits back on her heels. "I hate that even this place has now been tainted by war."

"I agree." There's dark rage beneath Seteth's words. "But they're gone now. She is...she is safe."

"Yes." Flayn gets to her feet, brushing sand off her dress. "We will protect her, just as she protected us."

\---

Emperor Edelgard has fallen. The fighting is not over, but Rhea is safe, and the war is won.

"There you are, Brother," says Flayn, crossing the bloodied streets of Enbarr. "Manuela is tending to Lady Rhea, and the professor is overseeing plans to return to the monastery."

"That's good." Seteth's voice sounds distant. Flayn's brow furrows as she picks her way between the fallen weapons and bodies to reach him. He's standing in front of a small but elegant building, with a sloped roof and stained-glass windows…

It takes Flayn only another moment to realize what the building is. "This is...where you and Mother met."

"I did not know this place stood still," says Seteth quietly. "I assumed it was long gone. All of Enbarr has changed so…"

"'Historic Church of the Goddess,'" says Flayn, reading off the small plaque beneath the window. "I suppose they have...reconstructed it."

Seteth only stares up at the building.

"I would like to go inside," says Flayn, knowing he will never suggest it himself. "If we have the time."

"I suppose we do." Seteth swallows. "Would you...like me to accompany you?"

"I would." Flayn doesn't wait another moment, merely reaches for the door. It's unlocked, swinging open at her touch, and they step into the darkened church.

Flayn flicks her fingers, creating a small orb of light that floats above both their heads. In its faint glow, the wooden pews have an ominous look. It's not a large church, a fraction of the size of Garreg Mach's cathedral, but well-kept.

Seteth only stares at it. Flayn can't read his expression.

"It's smaller than I recall," says Flayn, looking at a weathered bronze relief set into the wall. "I had only seen it a few times."

Seteth nods only fractionally, not looking at her.

"To think so much began here," Flayn continues, running a hand over the back of a pew. "And that even after everything has changed...that this piece of history could still stand."

Seteth doesn't answer her.

"Brother?" Flayn swallows. "...Father?"

Seteth starts, looking over at her. "I...apologize, Flayn. I was lost in thought."

"I assumed as such." Flayn crosses the church to take his hand. "You're allowed to miss her too, you know. You only ever speak of how her loss affected me, but..."

"She was your mother. The two of you were very close. I know how it devastated you."

"I know that it devastated you, as well."

Seteth doesn't answer.

"Even when you speak of Mother," says Flayn quietly, "you never say her name."

"...I do not."

"You can, you know. It is not as if you have lost that right."

Seteth clutches his free hand against his collar. Flayn watches the setting sun darken against the windows.

"She would be proud of you," says Seteth at last, turning to face Flayn. He brings up a hesitant hand to rest against her face. "And I...I am proud of you too."

"I do not recall ever having heard you say that," says Flayn quietly, tears brimming in her eyes. "Not once. Even...even during the first war..."

"Is that the truth?"

"Yes…"

"Then I shall say it now. I am proud of you, Flayn. I should have told you that more often. I have always been, and always will be, proud of you." Seteth smiles faintly. "My dearest...daughter."

Flayn scrubs away at the tears with the palm of her hand. "I…"

Seteth wraps his arms around her, and Flayn stiffens for only a moment before burying her face in his shoulder, clinging onto him.

For a moment, it feels like Zanado again.

"I feared - I feared I was merely a burden to you," Flayn whispers, voice stuffed with tears. "Something to worry over. And sometimes I fear that...that it was my actions...that got Mother killed…"

"That is not the truth. You are why I kept going, all these dark years," Seteth murmurs. "I tell you this not to burden you, but so that you know - you are no weight to me. You never have been. You have always been the light of my life, my greatest joy, and no matter who you become, that shall never change. I am proud of you...as Flayn, and as Cethleann."

Flayn stares at the bronze wall motif, glowing faintly in the sunset. The goddess's face smiles back at her.

"You bear no responsibility for your mother's passing," Seteth continues. "True, I often wished I had not allowed you to take to the battlefield. As I watched you suffer and struggle...I cursed myself for it."

"I know," Flayn mumbles. "You told me that, back at the monastery…"

"Yes...but none of my own burdens and worries change the fact that I am in awe of your strength."

"My strength?"

"Yes. That you have fought, and struggled, and wept...and yet you still smile. You still remain a ray of joy in a dark world. And you put in so much effort, Flayn, to protect what is dear to you - and I know how hard it is. I see how hard you work. I see your kindness and your dedication. And I am more proud of you than I can possibly put into words."

Flayn hiccups.

Seteth strokes her hair, and it reminds Flayn of her mother, and her throat tightens still further. "I love you. I'm sorry that I haven't made that clear enough. You are not a burden. You have never been a burden. You are the dearest thing in the world to me, and that has never changed once in over two thousand years."

"I...I love you too. So...so look after yourself." Flayn sniffles. "I don't want...to lose you too."

"You won't. I promise."

For several minutes, there is no sound in the church save Flayn's gulps and the rustle of dust in the rafters.

"We should get back to the others," says Seteth at last, drawing back. "Are you all right?"

Flayn wipes her eyes. "Mostly. Let us...let's go home, Father. Let us...let us build the peaceful future Mother wished for. Together, with everyone."

"Yes." Seteth takes her hand. "Let's go...little light."

**Author's Note:**

> \- Several bits and pieces of Flayn and Seteth's dialogue seems to point towards Flayn's mom having been human (ie Seteth having met her in Enbarr.) But also if Flayn's mom was human, then there's no way she should be able to remember her bc she would've died when Flayn was still an infant because manakete aging...so I sort of split the difference and used Jeralt's backstory and long life as inspiration. Ianthe is a human, but was getting regular blood transfusions from Cichol that drastically extended her lifespan - she probably would've lived another thousand years or so if she hadn't died during the War of Heroes. Does this fit perfectly into canon? No, but nothing does, and I had to go with something! So Flayn is half-human (but is for all intents and purposes the same as a fullblooded Nabatean) and was physically ~12 during the war (to protect her, Seiros and Cichol blurred history a little to make it seem like she was an adult.) I have spent a Lot of time researching for this fic and trying to make it work, haha
> 
> \- Cethleann does not mean "light" but it's a magical dragon language and I do what I want.
> 
> Thank you for reading, anyway!


End file.
